


Memory

by adri92



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adri92/pseuds/adri92
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes had not paid much mind to Irene’s words, “You’ll miss me, Sherlock.” At the time they seemed like vacant, irrelevant words strung together. They held no meaning to him and he’d let them float away from his mind like anything else he deemed useless; or so he thought. There was no denying he’d thought of her once or twice before they met up once more, but they were fleeting thoughts. The last he’d seen of her was her in her navy blue dress. Even for a brief time after that, he didn’t let her memory consume his thoughts. Irene had made plans with him to have dinner. Holmes had sat at a table, waiting for her. He’d checked his pocket watch that sat on the linen table cloth and noted her lack of punctuality. She never came. He’d thought of it as an act of forgetfulness or anything else but what her fate had truly been that afternoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory

Holmes had not paid much mind to Irene’s words, “You’ll miss me, Sherlock.” At the time they seemed like vacant, irrelevant words strung together. They held no meaning to him and he’d let them float away from his mind like anything else he deemed useless; or so he thought. There was no denying he’d thought of her once or twice before they met up once more, but they were fleeting thoughts. The last he’d seen of her was her in her navy blue dress. Even for a brief time after that, he didn’t let her memory consume his thoughts. Irene had made plans with him to have dinner. Holmes had sat at a table, waiting for her. He’d checked his pocket watch that sat on the linen table cloth and noted her lack of punctuality. She never came. He’d thought of it as an act of forgetfulness or anything else but what her fate had truly been that afternoon.

It was only after learning her fate that those words truly began to haunt him. Upon coming face to face with Moriarty, he’d never expected to learn of Irene’s fate. Moriarty reveled in illuminating what sinister plans he had constructed for Miss Adler. It was the sight of the handkerchief that truly made Holmes’ stomach turn inside out. Acid seemed to creep up throughout his body; incinerating his very heart and core. He made an attempt to remain expressionless as he snatched the handkerchief that had an elegantly stitched pink A from the table. The blood stain was revolting to him as he pocketed it hurriedly. Moriarty could see the way Holmes’ eyes seemed to drown in sorrow and possibly guilt. More than ever, Holmes was determined to protect Watson, even if it sacrificing himself. He’d been unable to protect Irene; he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Through strategic planning and logic, Holmes had managed to steer Watson and his beloved new wife from danger. He’d devised a plan to send Mary with his brother, Mycroft, where she would be completely out of harm’s way. Watson and he had stayed behind to fend off the many henchmen of Moriarty. Upon escaping, they headed to Paris to find the gypsy. Watson found Irene’s handkerchief among Holmes’ possessions. He pulled it out of its new home, not questioning Holmes about it. Holmes’ brown eyes looked up at Watson from beneath his tufts of eyelashes, his sorrow ever-so present. He never directed a word to the doctor but instead took the cloth from him, walking away. He stood idly, looking over at the ocean before him. His core on the other hand felt like a cold, turbulent sea storm. Holding the handkerchief in his hand, he brought it up to his face, letting what was left of Irene’s aroma to consume his senses. The scent brought forth memories he had thought he had buried long before.

It was a summer’s day, merely days before Irene Adler was set to be married. Not by chance did she show up on Sherlock’s doorstep at 221B Baker Street. She didn’t utter a word about being unsure that she was making the wrong decision but Holmes could read her like an old book. A book whose pages he had memorized: the texture, the curvature of the spine, the smell. Without interrogating her, he invited her in for old time’s sake and a cup of tea. He prepared them both some tea, still remembering how she enjoyed it best.

Holmes had forgotten to keep the framed photo of her hidden. Irene was an observant individual and she quickly took notice of it. The sight of it made her melancholic and long for something more. It only made the ache in her heart more pronounced. For a moment, they sat in silence. When the silence was broken, it was merely to discuss trivial subjects. They both walked on eggshells around the true hot topic: her marriage. She stood up; informing him she should be leaving now as she had other errands to run. Holmes stood up as well, preparing to walk her to the front door and say goodbye to her; surely it would be goodbye for a very long time.

His unshaven face beckoned to be touched. His lips seemed to beg for a feathery kiss. Unable to resist the temptation, Irene cupped his face with her delicate hands and pulled him in close to her. Their lips met momentarily before Holmes pulled back. He had trouble relishing the moment for an assortment of reasons. He could never divulge the feelings he had for Irene but she would always be the woman. Secondly, she was betrothed. Their lips’ separation was succinct before Holmes leaned back in, kissing her feverishly. His tongue traced the contours of her lower lip before gaining entrance into her mouth. Their tongues met together in a sensual dance while Irene’s hands moved between them, undoing the buttons of his shirt. Gently and with expert hands he released from her dress, pushing her backwards onto his bed. She removed his shirt, exposing his torso. She took the opportunity to trail kisses down his neck before lightly sucking the center of his throat.

A quiet moan escaped his pink lips as his hands trailed down her curves before removing the last of her clothes. He took a moment to pull back, admiring her beauty. Irene’s hands fumbled to remove his pants. Her movements were filled with lust now as she removed them in a hurry. Holmes gasped slightly at her touch now that he was exposed entirely. Her want for him had become a need; a desperate hunger. She would not be satiated by anyone else not when she needed Holmes more than she needed the very air that filled the room. He leaned down to kiss her neck; she tilted her head to grant him better access. His lips pressed against her heated skin as her hands ran along his back, seemingly memorizing every curve.

No longer wanting to waste any more time, Holmes hastily hoisted himself up by his elbows, hovering over Irene’s nude form. His mouth pressed to hers as he tongue traced the contour of her lower lip, sliding in tenderly to savor the taste of her. Her legs were apart as if welcoming him before he guiding himself into her. His thrusts quickened with each moment that passed. Each thrust more frantic than the last as both of their audible moans of pleasure encased the room. Once it was all said and done, he rolled off of her, lying closely beside her. Their breathing remained heavy and unregulated as their bodies still held onto the gratifying climax they had both experienced. Irene stood up from the bed and quickly dressed once more. Holmes had the bed sheet loosely tucked around him as she gave him one last tender kiss on the lips. With that, she was gone. He wouldn’t see her again for a while but that day always stood fresh in his memory.

The memory flashed before him. Often times it had been a welcoming one; melancholic at times, but welcomed nonetheless. However, times had changed now. She really was gone. Gone forever. Holmes had not even had the chance to say goodbye. The memory now left a bitter taste in his mouth and only reminded him of the atrocities Moriarty was capable of. Holmes let go of the handkerchief, allowing the wind to grasp it as it gently floated down into the sea. The sea dampened the cloth before drowning it, pulling into its depths, never to be seen again.


End file.
